St. Martin’s Le Grand, London, and Southwark
The Years of Our Lord 1397 to 1398
In the twentieth and twenty-first years of the reign of Richard II
With Stephen to take care of the girls and ensure the likes of Ordric Fleshewer and his men kept their distance and angry maudlyns sheathed their claws, we managed to establish a presence in Southwark and make good coin. On top of what the girls earned whoring, Milda and I made extra spinning and weaving. Together, we slowly rebuilt our lives, not just in terms of material comforts, but pride. Aye, I felt proud of what we were doing, for it was our labor, our choices; we were beholden to no one.
Not even Geoffrey; not anymore.
Ever since he’d received my letter, he’d made numerous attempts to see me. First, there were messages (which I ignored), then came long missives which I burned unopened. Finally, he came to the house, begging Milda, Yolande, and Drew to admit him, even speaking to Lowdy and Wace—to no avail. He asked the Dean of St. Michael’s to intercede. That didn’t work either. Nor did sending Father Malcolm with a copy of both The Wife of Bath’s Prologue and Tale for me to keep. Though I didn’t burn them, I didn’t read them either. I stowed the quire in a chest, swearing to God, the Virgin, and all the saints they’d never see the light of day.
One evening, he stood beneath my window and shouted, telling me and all the neighbors how sorry he was, and if he could just explain, I’d cast aside my anger and admit him once more.
“Tell him,” I instructed Milda, when his voice had grown hoarse and the folk next door had shouted for him to cease, “Satan would have a better chance of ascending to the Kingdom of Heaven than he has of being admitted to my house.”
He left shortly after, sending my faithful Milda upstairs with a message of his own.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh, Alyson?” she asked. Whenever she used my first name, she was appealing to our years together, the bond that cleaved us.
I lowered the distaff. “Not as harsh as his words, Milda.” I’d summarised what I’d read of the poem for her not long after it arrived. Milda had been shocked.
“He says it’s not you; not exactly. His Wife is meant to be everywoman, an example of what foolish men think women are.”
“Mayhap, but he didn’t need to base his design so particularly on me, did he?”
Milda had no argument with that.
Next, he deployed innocent Lowdy in his campaign.
“But, Aunty Alyson, think on this,” said Lowdy, her brow puckered, her eyes serious. “In his other poems, and in the one that features the Wife, he has all these crusty old scholars being quoted, men who can’t even put their own learning into good moral practice. His point is, if they cannot, why should women have to?”
“Since when do you parrot others’ words, Lowdy?” I said coldly.
I could be stubborn.
Whereas once I might have given in, I was afraid to. What if Geoffrey’s explanation didn’t satisfy me? Hurt had poured into the cracks his words had created. I was scared that if there was more to come, I’d be torn asunder. I couldn’t risk it.
Unable to help myself, I kept an ear to the ground for any discussion of the poems. Mayhap, I was as vain as Geoffrey’s Wife after all; I liked to hear what other people thought—or didn’t, as was more often the case.
If I raised the subject, someone always offered an opinion—mostly about the Wife, who folk either loved or loathed.
“Why, there was a minstrel in here the other night,” said the ruddy-faced owner of the White Hart, “he recited a piece. Had the whole place enraptured.”
“Shows wives up for what they are,” said one ancient drinker with two teeth in his head, scratching his crotch. “They talk too much, fail to obey their masters, suffer the sin of pride, and deceive.”
“Aye, the Wife proves what men have always known,” said a constable who’d popped in for a quick ale.
“What’s that?” I asked in a tone that should have told him he’d be wise not to answer.
“Men who surrender mastery to their women do so at great peril to their souls.” He drained his mazer, smacking his lips noisily. “And their cocks.” There was merriment. “Women are but children, should be seen and not heard. They be good for one thing and one thing only. Nay, two things.” He made a crude gesture with his hands then smacked his swollen belly.
When Lowdy raised the matter with me again, as by now she’d read the tales, I sat very still, thinking. Possessed of a quick mind and kind heart, Lowdy was considerate, weighing her words carefully.
“I know you think he’s modeled his Wife on you, Aunty Alyson. There’s no doubt, she carries your name and certainly bears a striking physical resemblance. And while she’s also very clever—” Lowdy wasn’t above flattery, “there’s many points of difference. For a start, she’s from Bath. He even calls her the Wife of Bath. You’re from Canterbury.”
Milda cleared her throat.
“Furthermore, while I know you don’t discuss your past, we know you’ve been married before. But five husbands is excessive, don’t you think?”
Milda coughed. I found my spindle very interesting all of a sudden.
“I mean,” continued Lowdy, “Master Geoffrey is being preposterous simply to make his points.”
“I’ll concede five is excessive, aye.” Bless her ignorance. This wasn’t her fault. I cast a warning look in Milda’s direction and modified my tone. “But his Wife could have arisen from the Dead Sea or tumbled from the heavens, and I’d still recognize her—as he no doubt intends.”
Lowdy sighed. “But surely, it’s not all bad? Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, Master Geoffrey’s defending our sex? After all, the men in the Wife’s story come off looking very poorly. She leads them about as if they’re swine with rings in their noses. Even Jankin—”
The mention of his name caused me to stiffen. Milda stopped what she was doing.
“. . . is so contrite after he beats her, he surrenders everything—gives her full control.”
“Not every husband is so . . . willing, Lowdy,” I said, as steadily as I could. “One could also argue that the Wife condemns herself out of her own mouth by demanding mastery, by eventually controlling . . . her last husband. She’s everything she accuses men of being, if not worse.”
“Which is what makes it so funny, Aunty Alyson.” Lowdy smiled and then shrugged. “I know this is important to you, that you feel Master Geoffrey has betrayed you, but is that really the case? He says the Wife is an everywoman, just as the manciple is not one particular manciple, nor the parson anyone of his acquaintance.” Lowdy leaned forward on her stool. “What if he’s defending you and all women by making the Wife so ridiculously bold and more than able to defend herself?”
“Did Geoffrey tell you to say that also?”
Lowdy lowered her chin. “He might have . . .”
Amusement flickered. The man didn’t give up. I watched as the pink in Lowdy’s cheeks deepened. Dear Lord but she was a sweet one. Seventeen and a lovely young woman who’d earned the admiration of the nuns of St. Agnes. Her mother couldn’t have been any prouder than I was.
“Come here,” I said and put my arms about her.
“I hate that you and Master Geoffrey are at odds,” she said softly, leaning into my embrace.
“So do I, Lowdy, so do I.”
She pulled away slightly so she could see my face. “Then, why don’t you make up?”
“Because that’s for him to initiate.”
“But, he’s tried, Aunty Alyson. Over and over, many times.”
“Not enough.”
Lowdy kissed me, and extracted herself from my hold, rising. “What I don’t understand is why it has to be one way or the other.” She looked down at me, hands on her slender hips. “Can the Wife not be criticizing men while also being criticized? Nobody’s perfect. If you consider it that way, then it might make it a bit easier for you to forgive him . . . till the next time.”
We both laughed.
Her footsteps retreated. A door closed. There was the low hum of chatter.
I picked up the spinning and contemplated her words, clever chit. Nevertheless, regardless of what Geoffrey intended, it still affected me deeply.
Thus far, no one had associated me with the brash-mouthed woman searching for yet another husband to rule over. To many, I was nothing more than a widow, an old woman who happened to be a bawd, preoccupied, like everyone else, with a poet’s entertaining words. Even to Lowdy.
Unbeknownst to them, I was also grieving a friendship. I found a kerchief and dabbed my eyes. Dear Lord, I was the living embodiment of that old proverb: “God made women to weep, talk, and spin.”
Suddenly, Geoffrey’s version of the Wife of Bath didn’t seem so unappealing.
* * *
Even with Master Stephen to protect them, there were times the girls were beaten. Men would wait until they’d lured them far enough away from Stephen before hurting them, usually because they refused to oblige a strange request or were simply furious at all women. Cut lips, black eyes, hanks of hair torn out, and, once, a cut from a swung dagger (that man had his jaw broken by Master Stephen and a dunking in the Thames for his pains). Anger always filled me when they came home hurt, trying not to make a fuss as I daubed and strapped their wounds, Master Stephen offering apologies. But it wasn’t his fault. This was the work of brutish, weak men.
No matter where they were or who was there, the girls were in danger on the street. Mayhap, it was time to leave St. Martin’s and find a place of my own, a place like those over in Southwark, where I could dictate who entered the premises, how long they stayed, and where Master Stephen could linger outside a door, ready to render assistance. A place where, if the men couldn’t adjust their vicious ways, they’d be shown out and banned from ever entering again. See how they liked having their movements controlled by a woman.
That made me smile.
In order to be more than a fool’s dream, we needed to save enough to pay for a lease and the overheads on a bathhouse. Unless I could find somewhere with furniture, there’d be that to think of too. A bawdy house had to look and feel a particular way to invite custom, as did the girls, for that matter. There’d be clothes to consider, bedding, perfumes, soaps. I began to imagine what it would be like, what shape my very own bawdy house would take. How I’d decorate the entrance, the rooms. The rules I’d set, how I’d care for the girls. As I sat in the solar and did the sums one night, I realized we were still an impossibly long way from being able to afford that sort of freedom. Disappointment engulfed me.
Nevertheless, things started to improve slowly. Not only were my girls much sought after in Southwark, but orders for cloth from the Flemish at Bankside, who had noticed the lovely fabrics Leda, Rose, and Yolande wore, grew.
The house wasn’t kept nearly as well as I would have liked. Between us, Lowdy, Milda, and I did what we could, but if the rushes weren’t changed as often and meals were bought from the local ordinary more than I would have liked, at least the spinning and weaving was becoming a little profitable. If I wanted it to remain that way, I’d have to consider hiring a housekeeper and even another maid to free me to spin more, Milda as well.
Once more, Fortuna turned her wheel in our direction. Before summer finished her annual dance, our household increased by two and a half.
First came someone I’d oft thought about but never dared to openly approach.
She arrived on the doorstep one miserable afternoon. The rain was relentless and everything was leaking and dripping. The girls and Master Stephen had come home early, Lowdy was busy with the nuns, making and distributing medic to monks who’d fallen ill due to the damp. Yolande had gone to fetch Wace from his tutor. We were sitting in the kitchen listening to the water dripping through the holes in the thatch, enjoying some ale and the warmth of the fire, discussing the death of John of Gaunt a few months before, when there was a resounding knock on the door.
“Who could that be?” asked Milda, half-rising.
“An inmate of Bethlehem, if the weather’s anything to go by,” I said, shooing her back into her seat. “Stay. I’ll answer.”
There was another knock. Louder. “By St. Cuthbert’s hairy legs, I’m coming!” I shouted.
“I’ll go with you,” said Master Stephen, raising his bulk from the stool where he was whittling an old stick he’d found.
Together we ascended the few stairs to the hall and wrenched open the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Time contracted. Once again, I was a woman in my prime, agreeing to marry Mervyn Slynge and being welcomed into his beautiful home. Then, I was the silly, lust-filled widow, delighted the handsome knave Simon de la Pole had asked me to be his bride. Finally, I was the giddy older woman, smitten in every way with her young lover. And through these men and marriages, the secrets, pain, and blood, had been this woman.
“Oriel,” I said, and drew her into my arms.
“Oh, mistress.” She burst into tears.
* * *
Hours later, after Lowdy, Wace, Drew, and the girls had gone to bed, and it was just me, Milda, and Master Stephen (who wouldn’t leave my side except to take the girls to Southwark), Oriel revealed what had brought her, after all these years and my endless hints via Geoffrey, to London.
“There’s two reasons. The first is Master Sweteman.” She glanced at her hands. “He’s dead, mistress.” She gave me and Milda a sorrowful smile.
“How?” I asked softly, my hand covering hers. Dear Sweteman. He’d been old when I left. It was no shock, but it was very sad tidings. He’d been like a father to Oriel. To many of the servants. It would hit Drew hard. I’d be sure to tell him first thing in the morning.
“He’d been ill a long time,” said Oriel, gazing at the window. One of the shutters was broken, refused to close, so we’d left it wide open. Rain still fell, thick drops that splashed on the sill. “Though he lost a great deal of weight, his stomach swelled like a woman’s with child. In his final days, he stopped drinking and was unable to use the jordan. It was a blessing when he passed away.” A great tear swam down her cheek. I wiped it away gently, lifting her hand to my mouth and kissing it.
“What’s your other reason, Oriel?” I asked softly. “Before you answer, know my home is yours.”
“Thank you, mistress.” She took a deep shuddering breath, the tension she’d carried loosening. “The other reason I’m here is Master Jankin.”
The room expanded then contracted to a tiny dark spot. I blinked, rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead, and everything, except my heart, returned to normal. Even after so much had happened, his name still had the power to disrupt me.
“Why?” I asked carefully. Milda’s eyes sought mine. I could feel my ribs tightening, a cord about my middle sucking the air from my body.
Oriel glanced at Master Stephen.
“You may speak freely.” Long ago, I’d revealed to him what brought me to London. He had my complete trust.
“He’s married again.”
“Oh.” I waited to feel pain, anger, jealousy. I felt nothing except the cold hard satisfaction that comes with knowing that though he might have plighted his troth to another woman at the church door, I was still his wife in God’s eyes. “Who’s the . . . bride?”
“Sabyn Horsewhyre.”
“Sir Horsewhyre’s eldest?” My. Jankin had set his sights higher than I’d have thought possible for a scholar’s son. Then again, he was a widower—and a wealthy one.
“Mistress Horsewhyre—I mean, Binder—had no need of me any longer. At least, that’s what Master Jankin said. I think the real reason he dismissed me was he was frightened I’d say something to his new wife about . . . about . . . what he did.”
I released her hands and stood. “Nay, Oriel, I think he could worm his way out of that. What he was really afraid of was you’d make mention of me. His living, breathing wife.”
Her mouth formed a perfect O.
“Never mind,” I said quickly. “You’re here now, where you belong.”
I went to the sideboard and poured some ale. When I’d passed the mazers around, I returned to the hearth and studied Oriel.
In the years we’d been apart, she hadn’t changed much. She was thinner, willowy, and tall, her hair the rich brown it had always been. Yet there was a heaviness about her, a seriousness I didn’t recall. It was no wonder, with the secrets I’d begged her to keep. It was a great burden for anyone. Jankin’s return must have been such a shock—a shock and relief.
I thought about the sacrifices she’d made, Sweteman too, all for me. For me and Alyson. I owed this woman so much. Through Oriel, I learned the fates of those I’d left behind—how Peter had gone to the monks at Bath Abbey and become a novice. Aggy and her family had moved north after her husband inherited a farm and was doing very well. As for Rag, she’d married Hugh Strongbow, who’d been courting her back in my day, and they’d a brood of children. Father Elias was yet preaching at St. Michael’s Without, older, frailer, but still in possession of a sharp mind and a big heart. I’d thought about them all so often, it warmed my soul to know they’d thrived; that my actions had not hurt them.
* * *
Naturally, Oriel took on the role of housekeeper, delighted she’d real duties to keep her occupied. If she was appalled to learn how we earned a living, it never showed. After all, this was the woman who’d managed the house of a sodomite for years, keeping his secrets and then mine. The girls loved her and Master Stephen worshipped her, falling over himself to do her bidding.
By the time autumn’s chill made the mornings brisk, another person joined our household—well, another person and her son.
Her name was Letitia Frowyk. She’d been a bawd in the Cardinal’s Hatte on Bankside—the house I thought had a sign that looked like a tower. She’d worked for a Flemish couple there for five years. But when they learned about her son, Harry, they threw her out on the streets.
“’Twasn’t their fault,” said Letitia, her first night with us. We were in the kitchen watching as she and Harry, a lad of about three, gulped down a rich pottage and some maslin. “Whores aren’t meant to have children, let alone keep ’em. If the bailiff, Master Fynk, found out—” she ruffled Harry’s hair, “they’d cop a huge fine, which would have fallen to me. I’m better off gone. They weren’t good people, not really. And I’d kept my son hidden for so long. He needs to find his place in the world.”
Wace was delighted to have a smaller boy to play with, and Lowdy another child to boss around. I heard her teaching Harry his letters before a rushlight had even burned. Wace was correcting him, smart fellow. It made me chuckle. When I was speaking to Geoffrey again, I must ask him if he’d talked to Gower about an apprenticeship for Wace. We’d been discussing finding the boy a position, even with Geoffrey’s scrivener, Adam Pinkhurst.
For certes, the future was looking bright for my Lowdy and Wace. There was no reason it couldn’t for little Harry Frowyk as well. I fluffed his unruly cap of dark hair and was rewarded with a happy grin.
I smiled and sat beside him.
The child pushed a fingertip into my mouth, resting it against my front teeth. “You got a big hole there,” he said, staring in wonder at the gap.
I tickled his finger with the tip of my tongue. He squealed and pulled his finger away, laughing.
His mother rose and gave him a clap across the ear. “Mistress, I’m sorry. You rude little beggar! You say sorry, y’hear?”
“It’s alright, Letitia. The boy only speaks true.”
“But, Ma,” said Harry, his eyes drowning as they filled. “The old lady has teeth like mine.” He indicated where a front tooth was missing.
“Less of the old, thanks, Harry,” I said. “Or next time it’ll be me clipping your ears.”
“So much for speaking true,” murmured Milda.
After we’d put Letitia and Harry to bed, Leda, Rose, Yolande, and Master Stephen told me they’d found Letitia and Harry hunkered down in the alley adjacent to where they worked, Foule’s Lane, being picked upon by a group of youths. One had broken a jug and was threatening to tear out Harry’s throat if Letitia didn’t comply with his demands.
“Oh?”
Leda’s eyes slid to Master Stephen, who coughed. “Wanted his cock sucked,” said Master Stephen. “I offered to do it for him, but explained that with my careless ways and big teeth, I was more likely to bite it off.” He gnashed a row of great gray tombstones. “Needless to say, the lad didn’t accept my offer. Neither did his friends.”
I couldn’t have loved him more in that moment if I’d tried.
“We couldn’t leave her there,” said Rose.
“Nor the lad,” added Leda.
“Of course not,” I said, reaching over and patting their hands. “Anyhow, timing couldn’t be better.” I tried not to think of the expense of extra mouths. “Someone needs to help Oriel. I’ll invite Letitia and Harry to stay in the morning.”
The girls leaped from their chairs and threw their arms around me. Master Stephen hoisted himself off the stool and with a grunt added his embrace to theirs. Once more, my eyes felt hot and my throat developed a terrible tickle. Dear Lord but my family had the capacity to make my body do the most peculiar things.
As it was, Letitia didn’t become a maid but willingly replaced Rose when, a fortnight later, the latter accepted a marriage proposal from a farmer, Tom Adams, out Essex way.
It was a day of mixed blessings when we witnessed her being wed to her brown-bearded man who smelled of horses, the country, and fresh air. Tom was a widower with four young children and willing to overlook how he’d met Rose and just make, as he put it, a goodwife of her.
“Work’s work, ain’t it?” he said when he asked for her hand. “Whether or not it’s honest is in the eye of the doer, it’s not up to others, except the Lord to judge. And how can He judge my Rose except by what’s in my heart?”
Where did my girls find these men? They were worth their weight in a Florentine merchant’s gold. Rose left us not only with her saved earnings, but a small dowry.
So, while Letitia worked in Southwark, I took charge of young Harry. What a handful he proved to be. Smart as well. Constantly dashing across the square when we delivered Wace to his tutor, he’d disappear into open doors only to emerge moments later with a slice of bread, an apple, or a burning hot ear. Few could resist him. He asked endless questions, was keen to help with the spinning or weaving, insisting on being shown what to do. His little fingers were deft, but also prone to getting threads tangled or snapping the wool, and his ability to stay focused on a task was worse than a puppy’s. Each day he’d come to the markets in St. Martin’s or, when they weren’t being held, venture out into the streets, gawping at all the people and the stalls. Gradually, the vendors came to know him and would pass a ripe pear, a hot pastry, or give him a vegetable to feed their soft-eared donkey. The lad had more charisma than a royal child, and would hold court whether we were in Cheapside, the Shambles, or down by the river.
When he turned four, just a couple of weeks after he’d arrived, I begged Father Malcolm to find a place for him with Wace’s tutor—all that inquisitiveness, that desire to soak up knowledge, it needed training. And, God knew, I needed a break.
Letitia couldn’t believe her good fortune when I told her Harry was to get lessons at the college.
“Bless you, mistress,” she said, dropping to her knees and taking my hands. “I don’t know what I done to deserve you—and the girls, and Master atte Place and Mistresses Milda and Oriel and Master Drew, but I must have done something good somewhere, sometime, for He is looking out for me and my son.” I pulled her to her feet and she held me tightly, weeping for joy. Damn it, if those eyes and throat of mine didn’t become all scratchy again.
I swear I was sickening or something.
Alas, it wasn’t me who was sickening.